Like Toy Soldiers
by PwnedByPineapple
Summary: In the silence of a dead world, only one question means something. "Do nations go to Heaven?" Character death.


**Extra Notes | No actual plot to speak of, but the basic idea is that some devastating nuclear war occurred. Recommended listening: "Like Toy Soldiers" by Eminem.**

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><p>"<em><strong>Step by step, heart to heart, left right left<br>we all fall down like toy soldiers."**_

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><p>America's lungs were burning with chemicals and sorrow.<p>

Every breath was ragged in pain and fear, and he stumbled through a wasteland, a place he had once known to be bright and full of life. Panic was coursing through his veins - panic, and the sure knowledge that there was nothing he could do.

Not anymore.

He didn't know why he forged on, when every minute he could feel the lives of his people fading. A terrifying emptiness was filling his mind where they had always been, and he could feel something alien growing in him - mortality.

_Why? Why do we insist on fighting? Why do we destroy ourselves?_

Peace. What did that even mean anymore?

A moan tugged itself from his lips. "My... people..." he gasped, slipping to his knees.

_No. Have to keep going._

America's hand dropped to his side, slipped into his pocket, grasped something small and wooden. There was one last person he had to find, had to say goodbye. He _couldn't_ be too late.

Not again.

He struggled to his feet, kept moving.

Left. Right. Left. Right

He was counting steps dully, scanning the dead horizon. _Come on. Come on! Don't be gone. Don't be..._

There. America began to run as best as he could, forcing his shaking legs to move and calling out, his voice rasping out of his throat. "England! England!" His voice held a childish ring, a desperation. He could have been young again, running to his big brother with a scraped knee.

The familiar figure across the wasteland looked up, and for a moment America felt an irrational hope. He could almost imagine himself back in his youth, back in a living world, wanting nothing more than his big brother. Then England pitched forward, collapsing and shattering the image, and America's heart plummeted.

He took a grating breath, found a greater strength, and sprinted the last few yards, skidding to a halt and kneeling beside England's prone body. "Arthur," he half-sobbed, gently lifting the smaller nation and cradling him like a child.

_Odd how the situation is reversed._

England cracked open his eyes. "Sorry," he whispered, trying for a smile. "When I saw you alive... well, this is as far as I can go." He coughed, maybe covering a sob of his own. "I'm sorry, Alfred... for not protecting you."

"Shut up," America said fiercely. He almost didn't care that he'd started crying. They were angry tears, frustrated and hopeless and impotent. "I should have protected you, I should have done something... dammit! I am... I was the strongest... I could have done something!"

England shook his head. "It was all a terrible mistake," he whispered. "But know this, Alfred... something new will rise one day. That's... what happens when nations fall. It isn't the end. You... are you going to...?"

America shook his head. "It's… only a matter of time," he admitted. The aching emptiness where his people usually rested was even larger now, invading his mind, nearly crippling him with grief.

England closed his eyes briefly. "Matthew?"

America choked on a sob again. "No. I was... too late."

_Too late, too late, always too late. You can't save anyone._

"Oh, God... Alfred," England breathed. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" America cried. He looked away, blinking rapidly as more tears tried to surge forth. Dammit! He wasn't going to cry in front of England anymore. He had to be strong, had to show that he could hold himself together, even at the end.

"You stupid git," England said softly. "Stop trying to be brave for me."

How could such simple words completely unravel him? America couldn't hold those stupid tears in anymore, let them course down his face silently. "Arthur," he said, overwhelmed by a sudden need to apologize for everything he'd ever done. His free hand dropped to his pocket once again. "I'm... sorry. For being annoying and not listening to you. I'm sorry for leaving you."

"If I can't apologize, then neither can you," England said, shaking his head. "I... don't care, Alfred. That's the past. I know I-I tend to hold grudges, but truly... it was for the best. You needed to walk on your own. I'm proud of you."

America bit his lip to keep from embarrassing himself even more. He pulled the object from his pocket, held it to where England's fading eyesight could see. It was a toy soldier he'd grabbed from his house, and it brought back memories of a world that hadn't gone to hell.

England smiled, gave a weak laugh. "You... still have those?"

"I did. I saved this one." America could still remember England giving them to him, all those years ago. The memory was so painful that his chest physically hurt, but it was gratifying to see the small happiness it gave England.

The older nation seemed about to say something, but his eyes suddenly glazed over, and he stiffened, staring fixedly past America as he battled with pain. America swallowed around the lump in his throat and hugged England closer.

"Arthur?" he asked in a small voice. "Do nations go to Heaven?"

For a moment, there was silence. And then, "I'm sure we do, Alfred."

"Are you just saying that to comfort me?"

England chuckled. "No. I think I'm trying to comfort myself. But... I don't think we go into oblivion. I think there's a place for us, somewhere in Heaven."

America's hand went to the cross around his neck, and he found himself praying desperately._ Please. Don't let this be the final end._

England's hand tightened on his arm, almost painfully. "Oh, God," he breathed. "Alfred. I-I have to go now. I'm sorry. But... but if you really can't hold on, then... I'll see you in Heaven."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

America closed his eyes, felt them burn. "Me too."

He gripped the toy soldier tightly, wrapped that arm around England, hugging him fiercely. England made a small noise of pain as his body began to tremble, then suddenly released a slow breath. America, whose head rested on the older nation's, watched in horror as England slowly began to fade.

He was gone in seconds.

_Too late, too late, you didn't save him._

America stared at his empty arms, then reached for the cross again, clutched it so tightly that his hand began to bleed. Alone. He was alone. His people, his family, his friends... they were all gone. They'd left him all alone, the last one holding on.

It would only be a matter of time, he knew. Letting sobs wrack his body, America looked up at the clouded, discolored sky.

"I'll be coming," he said. "Please be there. Please let me come there."

The silence of a world gone to hell was his only answer.

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><p>"<em><strong>Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win<br>but the battle wages on for toy soldiers."**_


End file.
